Something is healing new young black women in this country. I think it’s ourselves

Being familiar across border and boundary

“Where is your family from?” “Did you go to Howard? You look just like my daughter’s friend!” “Where yo’ people from?” “You any relation to the Kings?” Always someone’s cousin daughter little sister aunt, or younger self. I’ve not been truly alone wherever I go because I am always familiar to someone, often other black folks, regardless of diasporic origins. But not uncommonly beyond this kinship, too. I am familiar to folks, or maybe just a part of me is. I think it’s the part that’s healing.

I think young black women in this country, the US, are healing, and I think we are doing the work ourselves.

Never elder, always youth. “You remind me of me… back in the day… when I was younger… Olivia,—okay if I call you Liv?— You are where I wanted to be”… read as [who I wanted to become as shaped by what I really wanted to do; not what I had to]. Maya Angelou’s 1992 commencement speech to Spelman comes to mind.

We are somebody else’s dream. People lost them, hid them, stuffed them, or dressed them up like something to view. Shrined them, shined them, kicked them out then missed them and called ‘em back 30 years later all anew. I’m blessed today to the dream of doing what I do: living as I see fit and as God permits.

I picked apples this weekend. Found a few critters, too. Can’t add captions from my cellphone so the picture is of an apple dangling from between my finger tips— still attached to tree stem, leaves and all—neon yellow blending into faded pink-red. There’s a cheap plastic Halloween ring of a bat on my pinky. grassy field and overcast sky behind.